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RESTLESS: An Arts Anthology
RESTLESS is an arts anthology with the expressed goal of expanding and connecting the
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i.

Onwards - Upwards - Excelsior!
The future is a hard thing to pin down. We throw an umbrella into
our bag, we pack sunscreen, but in the end all we can do is plan as
best as we know how, and hope for the best. More often than we'd
like, the universe surprises us with something unexpected, unraveling all of our well intentioned schemes. That, however is the beauty
of the experience, and those unexpected moments, good or bad, keep

us on our toes. When we are younger, we would pack swords in
case a dragon attacks and dolls/action figures so we have coconspirators in case an adventure arises. As we get older, we plan
for more practical things, things that are more likely to happen. As
a society, this also seems to be the case. When we were younger,
collectively, we planned for rocket packs on every doorstep, flying
cars, and fabulous space adventures for every citizen.

As we've grown older, our fantasy has gotten more realistic, more
science-grounded. We've lost, to some degree, the flights of fancy
where everything was possible, just by the nature of knowing it really isn't. Retro-futurism is a unique way of adapting this peril of
existence. When writing as a retro-futurist, we take all of these
failed plans, all these hopes and dreams that changed as we grew up
as a society, and we allow ourselves to follow them to their (un)
natural destination. What if we did all get the jetpacks we were
promised? What if steam power was the miracle of modern invention it had been promised to be? From our place in the present,
combining the elegance of a bygone era with the technology that in
some cases will never be realized, we can imagine that all things are
possible. Imagine opening your presents on Christmas to find that
you did get that toy gun, the erector set and the pony you always
wanted.
As well as, you know, of course, a jetpack.
Come join us as we look back at looking forward.

ii.

-The RESTLESS Team

iii.

The Lion In The Axis Machine
By T. Munk

D

e c e m b e r
A world slightly
from our own.

1 9 4 0
different

The Industrial Age segued into the
Electronic age in 1927. The Edison-Bell
Company of America first perfected
the transistor and then the microprocessor in 1930. The first Mainframe
computers appeared when our world
was reeling from the Great Depression.
Prosperous American companies were
combining the rapidly expanding technologies of telephony and the greater
power and smaller size of computers
into a worldwide network of communications and data. By 1938, there was a
data terminal and phone on every major city street, and in most businesses
and homes. Americans who reveled in
the Great Golden Age of the 20's and
30's mostly ignored the European Conflict and didn't take the German Chancellor Adolph Hitler seriously, even
when he seized Poland, Czechoslovakia
and most of France. The most resistance the Nazi's experienced from
the Americans was the young crackers
who constantly harassed Axis networks
while sitting at home in New Jersey,
listening to Duke Ellington and Cab
Callowayâ&#x20AC;Ś
In North Africa, The Nazi occupation wasn't a large bother to a medium-scale smuggler like Josef Goldberg, it was just another bureaucracy
to avoid. He was good at what he did,
and today he relaxed in a bar he

1

mostly owned, unwinding after finishing a job that involved far too
much violence and far less profit than
he would have likedâ&#x20AC;Ś
Marrakech
THEY came like roaches after
cheese, two little men in white linen
suits stained yellow by the sun.
As I stared at their approaching
figures through a haze created by heat
and bourbon, I imagined they might be
cousins or brothers, and that they probably had matching little Italian .32 auto
pistols. The same tailor, the same mother and the same guns, stamped from a
mold common here in Morocco. I could
breathe easy. Whoever had hired them
either was a small player or didn't really
want me all that badly- in any case, the
Cockroaches had chosen their battlefield unwisely- for this was my territory, and before they'd lay eyes on me,
they'd be dead men.
This grimy watering hole was called
the "Nidaba", after some Sumerian
grain goddess, and among the novelties
it held were six little boys dressed as
beggars who had stone-sharpened table
knives stolen from the local Barritz Hotel. These boys loved their uncle Joe, or
at least loved the vodka and porno
slicks that their uncle Joe kept them
supplied with, and were accomplished
assassins. The boys had spotted and
surrounded the Cockroaches as they
entered the Nidaba's swinging saloon
doors and within seconds it was all
over. Little beggar boys are unnoticed

in this city, are literally everywhere,
and their whiny, insistent voices tend to
drone in your ears like a Mesmerists'
voice, and you never see the knives until it's too late. Even when I knew what
was going to happen, I didn't really see
it happen- just a blur on each man that
looked as if one beggar boy had reached
up in supplication while the other two
stayed bowed at waist level, one in
front, the other to the rear. Minutes
later, the boys and the Cockroaches
were gone, hustled down into the basement, and I followed.
Upon examination in the basement,
I saw the puncture marks on each man:
one in the upper throat up into the
brain, one to the heart, and one into the
liver. I also found the personal effects
from each man. (My boys are professionals, and I never worry about them
pilfering from their victims. They know
they'll get the goods, but they know I
want all the information on them.) The
pistols were Italian Berettas, as I'd
guessed, and Nazi proof marked, which
I hadn't expected. The identity cards
were Moroccan, and each had ReichBank seals, which, in combination with
the proof marks on the guns, led me to
suspect that the occupational government had finally noticed me. That was
unfortunate for me. Very unfortunate
indeed. I gave the pistols to the boys
and promised them a 50% take on what
Yellowboy could milk the cards for, and
then cleared out the back way and
walked to Yellowboy's apartment,
changing clothes twice along the way
and forgoing my car out of fear that the
Cockroaches might have had a backup
to watch for me.

An hour later I was in the industrial sector, having shown one of my cover ID's to a Nazi checkpoint on the
way. Nazi, but the only Aryan was sitting in the booth watching TV. The
guy who checked my card was an Arab
policeman, who fortunately did not
know me. Yellowboy's apartment was
one of about a thousand TekWurker's
apartments on an industrial block next
to a huge, red-bricked, smoke-belching
semiconductor factory in central Marrakech, a soot-blackened cube that rose
into the smog like a monolith. No windows at all. I don't know how they
stand living there. I rang up Yellowboy
and he buzzed down for the doorman to
let me in. One of the elevators didn't
work, and when the doors opened on
the second to disgorge an incredible
number of white-shirted tekwurkers, I
hesitated before boarding for the trip
up to the 12th floor. Claustrophobia, I
guess.
Yellowboy's apartment is like nerve
central at a crackers' wet dream. He's
got enough pilfered storage and networking to rival many corporations'
capabilities and he knows how to use it.
Yellowboy made his living by draining
stolen bank cards and laundering the
credit until it was untraceable, a service
I needed now. Yellowboy was also
smart. He never, ever played the spying
game, either for profit or for patriotism,
for which I was glad because he was
Japanese. I showed him the ReichBank
cards and he snatched them greedily
and fed them into his reader without a
word. The network took some minutes
to return a reply from the central

2

bank in Hamburg, and when the credit
readout came back, Yellowboy turned
to another terminal and started cracking
into the accounts, scheduling transfers
from all over the world until the credit
was drained. "Gestapo hired these guys
two days ago. Paid them a lot. Too
much." He said glancing at me with a
look that told me that the money involved should've bought someone good
enough to make me dead. "You better
hide. Your cut is 40,000 marks. I put it
in three of your unused accounts. Also
drained your real account and dispersed
it too. You've got about 90,000 marks
to get you somewhere safe.". He pulled
the cards out of the reader and put
them in his shredder. "Please don't
come here again. You in serious trouble.
I can feel it." He said as he hastily escorted me to the door and slammed it
shut behind me.
It took me another hour and a half
to get to one of my previously unused
hidey-holes, an apartment above a grocer's in the market sector. I'd had a lot
of time to think and lots to think about.
Yellowboy had made it plain that the
Gestapo had been serious but clumsy. If
they were serious, they'd try again, and
this time they'd use a samurai, and I'd
never dealt with a samurai before. I
wired 20,000 marks to the boys and
told them to get the hell out if they
wanted to stay alive and then I got out
my gun, loaded a couple magazines and
shrugged on the tailored spring-clip
shoulder holster, covering it with a
plain brown workmans' jacket that hid
the bulk. Hell, I didn't even know what
I'd done to warrant the attention of

3

the Gestapo, but I'd better find out
quick, at least so I could better assess
what sort of danger I was in. At worst,
I still had a network in Algeria I could
retire to, but that would entail getting
either plane passage or boat passage on
the coast, as Marrakech would be too
hot for me to use the out-country
transportation. I would worry about
that later. I went out again to find a
street terminal where I could make safe
inquiries, as I didn't have the network
savvy to cover my tracks like Yellowboy could. I knew where I could find
some unregistered terminals that used
stolen street codes to get on the network, and that would do the trick nicely.
The Waters of Lethe. Niko the
Greek had the Bard's sense of humour.
Lethe was the River of Forgetfulness in
Hades to the Greeks. Maybe I could
find a good cracker here. The odds
were good. I talked to Niko, who was
tending bar, and he pointed me to a
dark corner booth where a thin, unkempt negro sat hunched over a terminal. He didn't look more than 15, but I
nodded to Niko, who knew what he
brokered better than I did. Niko then
handed me a small vial of white powder. I nodded again and paid. I put the
vial in my pocket and went to the
booth. The negro kid ignored me, but it
was concentration, not contempt. I
waited for him to finish.

Minutes passed and my mind started to wander when he surprised me by
snapping toward me and saying in a
low voice; "You are in too much danger
not to be awake, Mr. Goldberg.", and he

motioned for me to take a seat at the
booth. "The net has been buzzing with
what you started, and Niko rang me up
when he figured you'd come here. I
couldn't resist the challenge." he said,
not making much sense to me, "The
name's Jeff Franklin.". He paused a moment and then said "By the way, Yellowboy's dead. Sit down please.". I sat
and slowly stuffed and lit my pipe to
cover my confusion. Things had really
gone out of my hands apparently. I've
been around long enough to know better than to let confusion show, "It is
better to stay silent and appear wise
than to speak and appear the fool.", as
my old uncle would have said. So, I said
nothing and gave the boy the vial of
powder that Niko had handed me.
"Hehh. Good, I'll be needing that." said
Jeff, and produced a small mirror, a
bone-handled straight-razor and a bit of
brass piping about 3 inches long from

his satchel. Jeff cut a small amount of
the powder from the vial onto the mirror, and chopped and crushed it finer
using the razor, then he separated the
powder into two lines and inhaled a line
into each nostril using the brass pipe. I
was fascinated, having never seen cocaine used in this manner. I had expected him to inject it. Jeff held his
head back and snuffled heavily like a
pig for nearly a minute and then he
opened his eyes and I saw a gleam in
them that I had once seen in the eyes of
an angry Arab who had nearly managed
to slit my throat once. I stifled an involuntary reflex to go for my gun and said
simply: "Are you ready to find what I
need?"
"Aheya! Let's go!" Jeff let out in a
husky whisper, and then turned to the
booth terminal. Even when I watch
crackers at work, I never understand

4

what they do, all I know is that Jeff
started by typing in about a half dozen
ID numbers and pass-phrases from
memory and then we were sneaking
through the electronic equivalent of the
back alleys of the network, underground servers, databases run by the
English and the Free French, sneaking
into Axis mainframes via mail and trace
-software bugs and quickly scanning
for pertinent information. Jeff even sent
a fewdiscreet inquiries to contacts with
Golden Chrysanthemum families that
were less than totally loyal to the Emperor in Nippon. Worlds I was not at
home in, languages that only crackers
and tekwurkers understood fully.
"Yellowboy was good- better than
most, but he was stationary; and that's
a fatal mistake in this business. Stay
mobile on the net and stay mobile in
the physical world, that's the only way
to stay alive in North Africa today with
the war and all." Jeff paused. "Hell,
they even tried to kill me in the States
when I stayed put for two weeks. No
place is safe anymore, even the neutral
countries. As for Yellowboy, the Gestapo's had their eye on him for a month
now, waiting for a series of transfers
where at least one could be traced back
to him. Yellowboy slipped- got greedy
and cut himself a bigger slice of your
pie than you realized, and failed to cover it adequetly. He died because of it."
He looked up at me with that glint
again, making me flinch. "You, however, caught the Gestapo's attention rather
abruptly.. You remember the job you
did for that banker Yari in Casablanca?"
I nodded slowly. That was yet an-

5

other thing I had thought was between
only me and the client. "Well," said Jeff,
"You should've checked more carefully
on who your victim was. You seriously
maimed the nephew of a Nazi colonel
named Gehring, and both you and Yari
are Jews. You getting the picture yet?"
I was starting to "get the picture",
as he'd put it, rather clearly. It meant
I'd have to get lost and stay lost for a
long while. Nazis in general and
Gehring in particular had a nasty habit
of putting Jewish civilians into prison
camps and starving them to death in
Europe. I'd even heard worse rumors
that I disbelieved, but still, the reality
was enough to make me very nervous.
It was time to get out of Morocco.
Jeff dumped the information he
had gathered onto a battery-powered
SRAM box, the kind that I doubted
anyone but very successful crackers
could afford. Less storage capacity than
the tape reels that Yellowboy had had in
his apartment, but far more than you
could get on the cassette tapes that
most people used for storage. An added
bonus was the fact that if you got
caught with the data, all you had to do
is pull the battery to wipe the evidence.
Jeff's stock rose a bit in my estimation
as he stashed the SRAM box in his hat
and led me out of Niko's place.
"I gotta go back to my place and
clean up before I leave Marrakech" I
said, "I can take you along if you want
a job, you've impressed the hell out of
me, and like you said; staying mobile is
staying alive." He nodded assent as if
he'd expected to go along anyway, and

said nothing. Cool as a dead Eskimo. I
led us to a safe house where we
changed clothes and went underground
into the catacombs that would bring us
beneath the Nidaba's secret entrance in
the floor of the kitchen. Lit by the oil
lanterns we carried, the catacomb walls
set horrible demons to dancing, something I've never gotten used to. I decided that I needed information more than
I needed to be cool. "Why are you my
friend all of a sudden?" I asked, "And
who are you anyway?". Jeff shrugged
and said dismissively, "I have good reasons. I've been looking for someone like
you, and Niko said you were the one I
needed. I trust Niko." I nodded at that,
because I trusted Niko that way too.
The real answers would have to wait
until later.
"Here. This is the Nidaba." I indicated a rusted ladder leading to a wood-

en door in the ceiling of the cavern. I
climbed up and knocked on the door six
times and heard one of the stockroom
boys unlock the lock and lift open the
heavy oak door.
It wasn't a stockroom boy who had
unlocked the door. It was a husky Japanese man in a nondescript black uniform with no patches or decorations. I
was in deep shit. The samurai broke my
arm in two places before I could clear
leather and my Colt .45 skittered across
the floor into a pile of discarded potato
sacks. Suddenly I was flying across the
room into a wall, hard. I heard another
bone snap and hot agony in my shoulder overwhelmed the pain of my broken
arm. I opened my eyes to see the samurai pull Jeff out of the hole in the floor
and throw him against the kitchen cutting table, sending pans and knife
blocks crashing to the floor. I got up

6

and tried to jump the samurai from
behind, a suicidal move for even an
armed man, and the samurai turned
swiftly and kicked me in the stomach,
sending me sprawling again. He turned
his attention to Jeff again, drawing a
throttling cord from one of his sleeves
with an evil grin. Laying there in the
burlap sacks doubled up with pain, it
took a second for me to realize what the
hard lump in my ribs was. My body
curled away from the samurai, I rummaged with my left hand in the burlap
until my fingers met the grip of the
Colt. I pulled the gun and swiped the
safety off with my nose, flopped over
and started pulling the trigger blindly,
even as the samurai somehow sensed
what was happening and whipped his
garrotte at me. I got off four rounds
before the cord wrapped around the
slide of the gun and jammed it. A
heavy shadow leapt at me and I passed
out in a red haze.
"You hit him three times." said Jeff
when I came to on a tramp steamer
twelve hours later. "I thought I was

7

dead, and you got him. I couldn't believe it." I couldn't believe it myself, but
here I was, on the Black Sea with my
right arm and shoulder in a plaster cast
and the ships' doctor changing the
bandages on my broken ribs. I was
alive. Jeff was in the corner of the room
tapping at his keyboard, going over the
data he'd collected on his SRAM. "I
cleaned out your storage tapes at the
Nidaba, you have a lot of interesting
data here.." He had a huge smile on his
face, like a kid at a drugstore fountain.
"You had friends who got us out and
greased our way to your network in
Algiers." he said. "I did some favors and
it looks like we'll be ok for a week or
so." So very confident, this young kid.
As confident as I was when the samurai
surprised us at the Nidaba. Well, there
wasn't much I could do in my condition
except trust him for a week. In Algiers,
we could be more cautious- I had a
good network and the Nazi's didn't
have much of a presence there. The
doctor tapped a needle in the air, then
injected it into my arm, and I fell asleep
to beautiful morphine dreams...

Avarice
By Obadiah Madsen

b

lind woman Avarice

and hidden beneath the gold

gives gold indiscriminately

spikes to rip you apart

demons poor gold into her sack

the money is yours

so it is never empty

but what good is money
to a dead man

at her feet
toad swallows dirt and sand

archers

but never eating for fear

shoot arrows

of not having enough

tipped with money
instead of points

the moneylender

at the suspended money bag

pawns to the poor

but when they miss

not caring

their arrows of money

that they will become

are gone

naked
and homeless

line up

if unable to repay

line up

but moneylender beware
of the thief

demons

by your money bag

with smiling faces
will give you plates

in the barrel is gold

for the money buffet

you can have it all

but the cost

if you crawl in

your soul

but once inside

but isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a life of damnation

you unaware

worth a life of riches

of the demon

here upon this earth

who will roll the barrel

8

This Is Heavy:
A Back to the Future
Retrospective
By Russ Kazmierczak, Jr.

O

ctober 25, 2010 marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of when Dr. Emmett
Brown unveiled his DeLorean time machine to '80s hipster Marty McFly, so
I was ecstatic to catch the Back to the Future trilogy on television recently. My
favorite trilogy of all time (pun intended), I vividly remember watching the first
installment on HBO when I was five or six years old and feeling absolutely jarred
by those final frantic moments, as Doc returns from 2015 and whisks Marty and
Jennifer away on a new adventure, only to shove a “To Be Continued” in the audience's collective face. I wasn't an avid comic book reader yet, so I hadn't grasped
this concept of “to be continued,” but I'm grateful that Doc introduced it to
me. Who better to instill an appreciation for looking forward to the future than
the guy that invented the Flux Capacitor?
However, watching Back to the Future II as an adult inspired thoughts that
hadn't occurred to me previously, specifically about the nature of time travel. To
recap, at the beginning of this second film, Doc takes Marty and Jennifer from
1985 to 2015, where their susceptible son takes the fall for a crime committed by
the gruesome Griff Tannen, a singular event that spirals the McFly family into
irreversible turmoil. Doc hatches a plan to change “future history” and keep the
McFly family intact, a noble gesture of selfless friendship that now strikes me as
inherently impossible in the context of the rest of the Back to the Future trilogy.
“Well, of course!” you retort. “Throughout the films, Doc is adamant about
the dangers of time travel and messing with the natural course of events, lest one
cause a rift in the space/time continuum that could destroy the universe!” To this
I say, aw, who cares? What's a little chronological paradox between true friends
like Doc and Marty? “Okay,” you continue, “so you must be referring to the fact
that Marty, Jr. is the spitting image of his father, which is impossible genetically,
and especially since Michael J. Fox looks nothing like Crispin Glover, either!” No,
I can accept this, too, assuming genetic engineering exists in the future, and someone as vain as Marty wouldn't mind a little micro-biotic manipulation in his favor.
What I'm saying is, the 2015 that Doc, Marty, and Jennifer visit simply doesn't
exist. Never mind that we live in 2010 and are nowhere near self-tying shoes,
hoverboards, and flying cars yet. Rather, I insist that once Doc picked up Marty
and Jennifer from 1985, he negated the 2015 he initially experienced with Griff and
Marty, Jr., because while Marty and Jennifer travel to the future, time still
9 naturally progresses forward but now without them, or else a 2015 wouldn't

be there for them to see at all. So, the McFly family shouldn't exist when they
arrive in future Hill Valley! The Fox television show Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles briefly explored this concept in its series finale, when young John
Connor landed in the future and discovered a rebellion he didn't lead because he
hadn't existed in history forward from the moment he disappeared in that time
traveling portal. Ah, pretty heavy, Doc!
In Back to the Future, I'd accept the concept of alternate realities, a domino
effect from affecting the natural course of events, but the DeLorean is a time machine, not a Superboy Prime punch. Thus, the oversight must be a thematic one,
since screenwriter Bob Gale and director Robert Zemeckis aren't idiots. See, I love
these movies despite their inherent hypocrisies because they present genuinely engaging, realistically flawed characters, and their time-spanning journey is as much
one of self discovery as it is chronological repair job. Marty is teenage hubris personified in his inability to resist the challenge of being called “chicken,” and Doc's
brilliance makes him so socially awkward, he has to create a time machine to get in
touch with his fellow man. (Take that, Mark Zuckerberg!) It's a perfect pairing of
imperfection, and by maintaining a McFly-infested 2015 despite Marty's absence
from time and consequential inability to make that family, Gale and Zemeckis
show us that self-improvement must always be possible. It's the most timeless
pursuit known to man.
Of course, Doc makes this clear at the end of Back to the Future III, when he
shows up at Eastwood Ravine to tell Marty, “The future isn't written yet! The
future is what you make it, so make it a good one.” When I was a kid watching
these movies for the first time, I had no idea my future would be a better one because of the Back to the Future trilogy . . . not to mention that everyday would be
a “to be continued” waiting to happen.
BONUS! Here's a fun Back to the Future II drinking game: Take a shot every
time (1.) Biff looks behind him confusedly, and (2.) Doc says, “Great Scott!” You'll
be the star of your own Enchantment Under the Sea Dance in no time!

Russ stands outside of Back to the
Future: The Ride at Universal
Studios in Hollywood, California
17 days, one hour, 51 minutes,
and 52 seconds before it closes
forever – or at least the foreseeable future.

10

2 days early
By David Wiersch

I

can remember the blur, the wet
feelingâ&#x20AC;Ś

The pain from the lights as it was first
laying its warm fingers to my flesh.

He breathed like a stalling biplane. His
tears bathed me in their sorrow.
Even then I knew.
My mother had passed.

No fear I felt, but I do remember.
The smell of my mother, her breath
heavy on my face.
I couldn't do a thing.
The tone and vibrations from her like if
you were swallowed by a humming
bird and content all the same.

He never touched me again.
Three days after, blurred faces and
weathered hands gathered around me.

I could have stayed there for ever.

I could not predict my end. My fate, as
the birds fluttered in the distance,
was

She spoke to me as she would any other
soul, new or old.

Decided with little clamor, little discussion.

It would be some time before I deciphered what she said.

That was the last day my young eyes
would ever again try to make out
The scope of my parent's little home.

In that tone, in that grasp, warm as
fresh baked loaf, but not nearly as
filling.
She would tell me this several times,
my first day.
"In a hurry already. Impatient from
birth"

Mother was dead, and I was dead to my
father.
No one wanted to take care of the baby
boy, too impatient.

I never thought, not for one momentâ&#x20AC;Ś

I watched the older boys in my new
home.

That being early could cause so many
problems.

I watched them wander and fall as
though they fought off the plague.

Two days came and went. Marveling at
my new surroundings,
I would cry out just to express the
beauty and wonderment of this.
Today was different. I found my self in
the twitching, rough grip of my father.

11

I watched as their teeth fell from their
great gaping mouths to the floor.
I watched as their eyes like sea of silverfish rolled into their heads.
I watched how the nurses effortlessly
filled their veins with
Which ever psychotropic or sedative
they were paid to try on us that

week.

I would watch this as I sat by the window, resting my bare legs on the
splintered boards of the floor, moving
my feet between the patterns of the
wood worms.
The sun didn't like seeing this, perhaps
even more than I.
The haze of sleep walked a slow pace
out of my eyes, wile the nurse
showed a new couple around. I never
paid much attention, if it was my fate
to be handed to another pair of
strangers and their sweat riddled
hands that reeked of pine and mold,
so be it.
This was not up to me.
Nothing ever is.
Soon enough, or not, I was taken home
by 3 new strangers.
They all grinned. Worried about my
teeth, I did not return.
They had a daughter, Lulu.
Lulu-bell as I would later call her. She
had eyes untouched by any evil, a
pair of perfect little gifts. I could
stare at them for hours trying to recapture an innocence I lost.
My new father was a kind man, his
skin was like a melon rind. His hair
pulled back and secured by a strip of
brown leather, but between those
broken cheeks was a garden of cheer
the stretched open like a bird's wing
to flight every time he spoke. I do not
believe that man had a bone burnt by
the taint of evil in his being.
I never opened my eyes for his wife.

I refused to burn a visage of motherly
love into my soul.
I couldn't, for fear of loosing the
shape of my mother in the midst.
She, kind as the summer days are
hot, smelled of spices and fruit all
hours and seasons.
I never looked at her face. She would
beg me to at times, the sound of confusion fluttered from her lips. I may
never forgive myself for this trespass.
It was 7 years in the house, where love
was felt and spoken and spread.
Nothing is forever.
The night broke open by the sound of
thunder and every dark corner was lit
by the lightning surrounding. My
father was yelling as the window
shutters slapped our poor home as if
they were trying to escape. I sprung
forth out of my bed to see what was
occurring.
Perhaps I should have stayed in bed.
The water from the river crept in like
thieves with out a care.

We tried to stop the intrusion with sand
bags.
But it was doom knocking that night.
The sound that came next made my
heart skip and my ears cried like
wolves missing one of their pack. The
house was too quickly engulfed in
flames.
We had barricaded ourselves in our own
crematorium.
By the time the water broke down our
door, my family was cut in half.
Lulu and I ran in the dark night as

12

if we could out run this truth together.
Through the flashes of light, I could
barley make out her cornflower pajamas

Her body, a ghostly contrast to the
barren, dark river, she just drifted
motionless.

As she was fell into the mouth of the
river.

As I caught up to her she rotated, as
if her soul leapt out of her, turning
her to the surface to gaze upon
heaven.

The river would have its meal this
night.

Her eyes as black as the river, the eyes
I loved, where turned out.

I dove in the ink black water after her.

With my heart and chest burning
from it all, I pulled the angel from
the river.

The night sky attached it self to her
like a beacon.
In the confusion she was swimming
deeper in, though I struggled toward
her
I knew I was running out of breath.
Then she stopped.

13

I stared back as our home still a glow
from the fire, then down at the
porcelain doll
In my arms.
I placed her on the soaking field, and
went back to give the river its due.

Eddie

S

uccess comes most often on the
back of failure. Three people converged; hoping to garner triumph on
the coattails of shortcomings and folly
from those defeated before. It was
called a hoax, a malady of thought and
known science...which was precisely
the point of pursuing it.
No documented success came in
the twentieth century. One man decided to look at the enigma from a more
practical and patient vantage. He was
best known as the Curator. He worked
closely with the estate of Thomas Alva
Edison, more an assistant rather than
his moniker suggested. He came into
contact with many history buffs and
otherworldly enthusiasts who passed
through at a steady trickle. Official
policy was not to pay mind to any sort
of paranormal questions or requests. “Nobody really knows” was the
standard answer if someone felt
staunch in their opinion. Secretly, the
Curator knew what it felt like not to be
heard or excluded from difference. He
was muscled out from joining the
clique of the Edison crew. Waiting and
plotting, he finally had a plan to etch
his name in the legacy of Thomas Alva
Edison. All he needed was the right
group.
Three was the decided number, but
without a true reason. It just felt
right. Common knowledge states a
conspiracy is no less than three people;
but the successful ones are with two of
them dead. It took years of plotting
and planning, but the “Coup Crew”

By Matt Mesnard
assembled so to speak.
A young college student was selected first. He was on the Curator's radar
for a long while; at least since middle
school. An engineer handy with solder
and tin snips who brought his self-built
devices numerous times to seek out
anything paranormal. The practice was
frowned upon by most staffers there,
but not wrong to do. This guy in the
rounded black glasses and the barelynoticeable stubble investigated quietly
and didn't care about winning popularity. Many times he politely offered the
Curator money or graft to get a late
night peek. The rapport was very slow
and the eventual proposition was unexpected by the student who eventually
went by the name Blue. He earned it
from all the objects he constantly designed; whether of fantasy or reality;
the blueprint solution often carelessly
stained his hands.
Rounding things out was someone
with far less technical expertise, but
hobby of constantly reading Time-Life
books compensated for academia
smarts. The question was how much
of being chosen for skill set was true,
or if largely for being female. She wasn't a ditsy blonde, nor was she a student with accolades. Her flighty demeanor never hurt how much the others trusted her. Keeping with nicknames, the Curator called her Tobin - a
movie reference. This free spirit knew
a lot about the ethereal beyond without
being a dedicated student of the occult
or the goth persuasion. With a

14

positive demeanor, Tobin became the
moral compass as well as the objective
one in the group. She also took on a
variety of burden and tasks. If an errand was to be run or a brief spot of
research done, it was happily fulfilled
by Tobin. A female was also the best
asset to have when a wheel needed
greased or a person was undecided on
granting a favor. Each was respected
and none was treated as an outsider;
since each knew that feeling well and
didn't wish it upon anyone else.
Seeds of this particular pursuit go
back to hearsay and mysterious circumstance. At the time of Thomas Edison's
death, all clocks in his house and workshop stopped. Lore states an apparatus
was tinkered with until the day he died,
yet no trace of it was ever recovered. According to the estate, it was
only hoax., but many circles say the
“dead machine” was more than hokum.. If one believes in the plausible
rather than the impossible, here is
where the road forks.
The first common theory was the
machine actually existed, but never
worked. Edison toiled with a specific
assistant in secret; conscious of the device's workings, and instructed to establish communication from the other
side. Perhaps it failed and all evidence
was destroyed, thus a patent never
filed. A magician named Joseph Dunniger claimed seeing a prototype. Working in the craft of deception
dissipates hope for many..
One decade after Edison's death
was a séance. The session was said to
15 reveal three assistants knew of the

device. Something was eventually cobbled together but never worked. The
man who invented putty held his own
séance and was said to be working on
his own version. Death ended his pursuit...but no such device was ever
found in the possession of J. Gilbert
Wright.
These three dreamers knew there
would only be one change to get things
right. Rather than chasing smoke, a
new tactic was employed – even if futile or an exercise in redundancy. Outsiders might have said such things, but
this group was up for the challenge
wholeheartedly. The Curator had more
access that the usual person. Not only
could they be in the actual workshop to
test their machine, but they had Edison's inventions for use. Blue used
patent information and extremely close

looks to fabricate their device. It all
had to work the first time, but also
couldn't harm the original inventions
whatsoever.
M a ny w e nt w ro n g in t h e
past. Some tried a variation of spirit
writing with Edison typewriters. If
they properly researched, it was only a
name. However, Edison did invent the
first electric typewriter; described as a
printing wheel. This group used it, and
also a stock ticker; borrowed from an
avid collector under the impression his
Edison Universal Stock Ticker was on
loan to a museum. Those inventions
connected between two “Edison keys”
which made a two way telegraph which
tied into the ticker to capture Morse
Code.
This eccentric display were all

items Edison knew inside and out. This
trio wasn't looking for instructions for
the Dead Machine. They constructed
their own – targeting none other than
the icon himself. The very reason this
endeavor was codenamed “Operation
Eddie” respectfully..
With most every piece in place,
they huddled on the floor of the oncegreat workshop under the amber color
of nearby candles and lanterns. Blue
attached the last bit with Tobin's smaller fingers reaching where he couldn't. A nondescript wooden box was the
last piece connected, but the most important detail.

some phrases and various quotes from
the inventor before Blue carefully sent
out a string of dashes and dots from the
group's side of the telegraph. All three
waited in silence.
Mechanical noises reverberated, and
something spooled. They looked on;
watching the ticker fuss with itself beneath the century-old glass.
Clicka-clicka whir... Clacka-clack.
Bip-bip.

Bip-bee... Beep-beep.

Edison may be the father of electricity, but the everyday household's
electricity comes from Nikola Tesla's Alternating Current (AC). Edison
secretly contributed to inventing the
electric chair in order to prove how
dangerous his former assistant's electricity was versus the safer Direct Current (DC) of Edison. How could anyone assume modern electricity would be
able to rouse the Wizard of Menlo
Park?
Blue angled an Edison phonograph
into position. Recording cylinders were
created, with Tobin's expertise on getting the wax near-perfectly recreated, to try capturing anything the human ear couldn't register. Well after
midnight, they were finally ready: Now
or never.
Crouching low, they took in the
hum from the DC electricity- transfixed by the surreal equipment and the
feeling of standing between history and
progress at the same time. Tobin spoke

16

The Trenchman

1

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Rain. It had been raining around
the muddy trenches for three days
now. Such a relief from the usual hot baking sun. My boots were caked with mud,
and my coat was splattered with dirt. This
place used to be beautiful fields. Hell, I remember my pop taking me here as a young
lad to play... there was a playground. Not
anymore. The artillery of the Empire of the
Sword's legions had made sure of that,
transforming once beautiful fields and forests into a dry, desert wasteland. Making
room for the damn war. The enemy had
been at it too in the first weeks of the war.
Sometimes stray shots would hit villages,
entire families killed. Murdered. Who were
we fighting? Rebels. They called themselves
the Blades of Revolution. Through the rain,
I could see the dim, dim lights off Ultracity
off in the distance. This was only one out of
many cities and land that they have turned
to rebel. Did I have a choice to fight in this
war? Yeah. Why did I take it? Because they
had killed my whole family. My village,
with a stray incinerator round. Burnt everything. My parents, brother, sister.... dog...
birds... Everything. Even my friends. I had
no life to go back to. So I traveled by horse
to the nearest city to sign up, and they sent
me out here. With light armor, a rifle, helmet, gas-mask, and other gear that you
would think a soldier grunt would carry.
When I had gotten here, the place was
a desert, and Ultracity could be seen off in
the distance. A big, blue spire made up of
hundreds of buildings and billions of people.
The commander handed me a shovel, and I
was sent to dig trenches as every other
grunt was doing, even some convicts were
sent in. It was hot those first few weeks,
but now it was raining. We were given
trench coats. It wasn't warm but hell, was
better than roasting. Day in, day out,

17

By Evan O'Connor
the artillary guns, heavy, gigantic cannons
on treads, rolled from the Empire's many
factories across the country, and sent over
to this hellhole. They made most of the
noise. We barley saw any of the enemy, as
they were constructing trenches as well.
Then it happened. Our commander blew a
whistle. We instantly dropped out shovels
and ran over, saluting by placing our fists
over our hearts. The commander hadn't
really fought a rebellion before. He was old
and gray of hair with his share of scars and
stories, and was around when the republic
had first reformed into an empire. The artillery batteries fired again, thundering as
lightning struck, illuminating the aged warrior.
"AT EASE!" He barked. Everyone put
their hands down. "In one hour, we are going to be storming them. Our tanks are
rolling in first. They'll punch a hole for you
men to get into their trench defenses, and
then our artillery batteries'll roll up and
open a hole in the walls. You'll storm them.
And after a few reinforcements, we take
that city. Reinforcements in the form of
airships, warmeks, and a few more legions.
They wont see it coming." Everyone was
still. Rain hammered upon us. "Well, gather
your rifles, knives, swords, whatever, and
pray. One hour. It might take a few days to
take the entire city though. No mercy. No
prisoners. Go."
"FOR THE EMPIRE!" All the soldiers
down the line shouted. There was one thousand of us in this legion. My regiment within the legion was fifty men, led by this brilliant aged commander. Four other legions
would be making their way to these positions now. I thought of all this as I walked
into my bunk underground beneath the

trenches. The chambers shook as I gathered
my things, grabbing extra bullets, a knife, a
sword. I sheathed both melee weapons and
hooked them to my belt, loaded my rifle,
and left. One half hour until the storm.
2â&#x20AC;&#x201D;It was cold and wet out. Alas, I
was sweaty, and no doubt the rest of the
regiment was as well. I could hear the commanders of the other regiments in their
areas of the trenches. We all stood before
the wooden support systems that would be
our ladders ascending to Heaven, or Hell, or
Valhallla. A few explosions went off. They
sounded near in front of us.
"By the gods..." A soldier said a few
men down the line. He was shaking violently. "I CANNOT GO! I WILL NOT GO!" He
began convulsing.
"He is having a panic attack..." The
regiment's medic, Theodore Silver said. He
grabbed the man. "Now look here, sir. You
were the one that joined up. There was no
draft. You chose this fate, and you will do
it, and I pray to the gods that you will succeed and make it past that damned field of
Hell safe and sound. I am going to give
you..." He said, pulling a long needle from
his wet bag, and pushing it into the man's
arm. "An adrenaline boost. You just try and
relax..." The medic fell back into line, ripping a pistol from a holster on his belt. A
whistle blew in another area of the trench
sounded. The waves were starting their
advance. In five minutes time, the musician
of their regiment blew a whistle, and began
hitting his drums on his waist to lead the
men into battle. The standard of the Sixteenth Regiment was soggy and flowed in
the wind, whipping through the cold wet
air. The men around me advanced as one,
like mindless machines of war, grabbing
onto the ladders and climbing into no-man's
land. Above, the High Commander's airship,
Titanicus, hovered. The man was inside the
bridge, smoking a pipe and watching the

events fold out. We were nothing but miniature toys to him. All High Commanders
of a legion were like that...
I grabbed a hold of the trench's lip, and
pulled myself over into the muck. I was
covered in mud. Half my face was pressed
against the stuff until a man helped me up.
"Let's go, best o' luck to ya lad..." He said,
and charged, rifle held out. I stood, a bit of
hope in me, and I unslung my rifle as another enemy artillery barrage crashed a several feet in front of me, throwing tons of
mud into the air, and the soldier. I ran over
to him. His helmet lay cracked, and his left
arm and right foot where gone. His face
was covered in a burn. "G-go. For the Empi..." He died then and there. I swallowed
hard, and began to charge. Nothing else
would happen unless I got to the other side
of Hell. I saw the tanks, and men taking
cover. More artillery strikes sent up men.
One smashed two feet from where I was
running, and I was flung onto the muddy
earth. I picked up my gun and continued
running. Just a few feet more, I told myself.
It was not a few feet, it was more like half a
mile at this point. men were running and
dying all around me. I closed my eyes, but
opened them as I had to see where I was
going. Rain blurred my vision so I slapped
down the goggles on my helmet. And then I
heard what sounded like an artillery strike,
but it was louder. The whistle grew and
grew and grew. I eventually made it to the
tanks, where I panted, and puked my guts
out. Another trooper by my side patted me
on the back.
"Hey mate, ya okay?" He asked. I nodded.
"I'll... be okay... What's that noise??" I
said. My first words in a few days. I was
antisocial and really didn't want to make
any friends that would die, would hurt.
"Some kind of artillery strike? I dunno..." He said as the Imperial artillery

18

batteries were being rolled in, escorted by
warmeks, small machines in the shape of a
man but larger, piloted by a single man
each. They were clad in armor. On one arm
was a machine gun and giant bayonet, and
on the other was a flamethrower, and covered in iron. The batteries rolled in. The
whistling got louder and louder. Then silence. A few minutes later the silence exploded into the loudest noise ever. Bright
white light blinded all of us hiding behind
the tanks. A mushroom cloud was over our
trenches. I couldn't even see the High Commander's airship. Smaller tinier mushroom
clouds cracked around it, all over no-man's
land. Headed for us.
"GASMASKS!!" Our commander bellowed as loud as he could, probably losing
his voice in the process. I pulled down my
mask. A great cloud of radiation and dust
blew over us. A few men went flying as did
several tanks. The people who didn't get
their masks in time died instantly. My eyes
went wide as I saw the artillery batteries
and warmeks completely obliterated, nothing left but melted treads and legs.
"Damn..." I whispered to myself. Then
it went eerily silent. The enemy's guns
stopped firing. Everything just stopped. As
I looked over the wet grounds of no-man's
land I saw the hundreds of dead. We were at
the enemy trench system now. Our tanks
began rolling over, and our commander ordered us into their trenches. No men. No
rebels. None. Just a few of our cadavers that
had fallen when the blast washed them
away. I hit the ground with a splash. The
water here was up to my ankles. I saw our
commander walk by me.
"They've got an entrance from the
trench system into the city. How else would
they be getting out here??" His voice was
muffled over the radio within his mask. The
men began piling down into the river. "Of
course... The sewer system... GET

19

OUT OF THE TRENCH! THIS ISN'T A
MILITARY INSTALLATION! IT'S A
MOAT!!" Then water crashed down a corner
and headed for us. I grabbed onto the wall
and attempted to claw up but there was no
matter, just slippery mud. The water
crashed upon me. I was ripped from the
wall, mud still clenched in my fist, and was
taken away like the rest of the troopers who
had decided to take out the enemies in here.
I could only think one thing.

"Damn... Damn damn damn damn..."
The word repeated itself over and over
again. We were washed down into a large
pit. The pit was dark. As I went over the
edge, I could see a few men grabbing a hold
of ladders and mechanisms along the walls,
some slipping and falling into the unknown.
I grabbed a brass cable to my left, and
squeezed, holding on for dear life as I pulled
myself out of the waterfall. I slipped, and
fell onto some grating. My rifle probably
wouldn't work, but I did have a chance to
test it when a wooden door opened and a
rebel walked out. He wore the same gear as
I, just with big red X's over the Imperial
symbol of a sword and a giant I. The man
had a machine gun, which he pointed at me.
I fired, and the bullet caught him in the
face, and he struggled, shook, and fell from
the ledge. Now I fell back and breathed for
the first time in minutes. My mind was
clearing. Where was I? I heard voices and
looked around. Everyone else was climbing
onto niches and what not, attempting to get
to the many other grating systems that I
was on. I heard the radio in my ear crackle.
++This is commander Darkan...++ So,
that was his name. First I heard it. ++We
have seemed to have reached a sewer system. Who is alive?++ Several other voices,
both weak and strong, answered him. After
a second of silence, he continued. ++Try to
get to a door, and meet me in these chambers. Our numbers have greatly lessened.
And now, we know they have nuclear wea-

ponry. Unfortunately, my comm-operator
has disappeared. Along with his equipment,
so we cannot make the high commander
aware, unless he is dead. Speed of the gods,
men. And the Empire's blade be with you,
and the Emperor's sight upon you. Speed of
the gods... meet with you all soon...++ Another crackle. I didn't even bother reporting
in. They'd seen me, or they will when we
meet up... I see everyone else getting up and
collecting themselves, some already up on
their feet and leaving. Then I see a few rebels enter some of the grated areas only to
be shot down by the Sixteenth. I collected
myself, and walked into the door just as
several rebel elite storm troopers rushed out
onto a catwalk across the pit and opened fire

on any survivors they saw. I was in before
they could.
Now, I just wanted to rest. I took off
my gas mask, and breathed cool air of the
long white corridor. No violent shaking
from artillery. No, this was in a city. Gods,
I'm thankful... However, my trenchcoat was
drenched, but thankfully the water had
washed away most of the mud... and blood,
but I still had a few cuts and scrapes. I
needed to make contact with Theodore, and
I pray he is still alive. I began walking down
the long, white corridor...
3â&#x20AC;&#x201D;The corridor extended for miles, all
white. It was cold, too (thankfully I had a
coat for that). I got no chatter over my radio. Then, finally, I had found some stairs

20

leading upwards to the right. Went through
some swinging doors, and got to a stairwell
going up and down. I checked the ammunition in my rifle, and saw I had twenty shots
left in the clip. After a minute, I decided to
go up, as that would take me into the city,
and I wanted to see what it was like, I haven't been near civilization in a long time. I
could always find the guys later. Ultracity,
back in its heyday, was one of the biggest
capitols of commerce and entertainment in
the Empire.
What I found was nothing what I
thought. The city I had signed up in was a
sparkling jewel. Ultracity was once the
same, but not anymore. Decay was everywhere. Some strange fungus was overrunning the city street and every building within eyesight. At least the rain had stopped
and dried up, and the sun was out, the heat
returning. The sun was our number one
enemy, I had been told in training. I
stripped off my trench-coat, letting it fall to
the ground. Under it I had a bulletproof vest
covered in steel with large rubbery shoulder
-pads. The bright sun automatically began
to beat down upon me with its evil rays. I

21

slung my rifle and began to explore.
The narrow streets twisted and turned.
I never saw anybody. Then, I found a shop.
I entered. Nobody still. I decided to take
some spoils of war, stealing a few bottles of
rum and water. Then, a sound behind me. I
dropped the bottle of rum in my hand, the
liquor smashing upon the stone ground,
throwing glass shards and rum everywhere.
The glass crunched under my combat boots
as I turned, pulling up my rifle and priming
it to fire. As I walked out onto the cobblestone street, a great wooden butt of a gun
smashed into my face.
I awoke in a chair some hours later. In
front of me was some gigantic window.
Below I could see the city expanding around
me, making me feel like a bruised, bloodied
up god. In the far-off distance, I could see
the reinforcements. I could also see the remains of our old base camp. What was once
a series of trenches was now just a great
crater full of debris. It'd take a half hour at
least for the reinforcements to get here. But,
we had failed, we were supposed to unlock
the gates and storm em, too bad it didn't
work out.

Karaoke
By Russ Kazmierczak, Jr.

W

hen I was a child,
while my friends spent their
hours after school
earning black belts in karate class,

I studied a different discipline,
belting out songs at the foot of my
record player,
earning black vinyl records from
my parents' collection
whenever I'd mastered the one before.
Yet while my friends had tournament
matches to exhibit their talents,
I didn't find a forum for my skills...
Until I turned 21.
It was then, in all of its glory,
that I discovered karaoke, and my
life was changed.
More spiritual than kung-fu, more
combative that karate,
karaoke is the common man's discipline,
a veritable lifestyle that with just a few
bottles of beer
can unleash everything you've kept bottled up inside.
If you don't think karaoke is a spiritual
experience,
consider its most popular songs:
"The Devil Went Down to Georgia,"
"Livin' on a Prayer,"
"Don't Stop Believin'."
These are the hymns of a new generation.

Forget the prodigal son or the rich man
squeezing through the eye of a needle.
Jesus wishes he thought of the parable
of the Tiny Dancer, the little ditty
about Jack and Diane,
the beatitudes of the Singer in the
Smokey Room
and his miracle, turning water into
the smell of wine and cheap perfume.
These protagonists, we remember,
because their tales are universal to
the human condition â&#x20AC;&#x201C;
black or white, Republican or Democrat, gay or straight,
Jew or Muslim, blonde or non-blonde,
at some point everybody asks,
"What going on?"
These tales are ageless,
because even time can never mend
the careless whispers
of conviction, the lyrical lessons
that inspire us
to tell their stories, too,
like evangelists, our mission field
the stage,
or the choir leader, the piano man,
preaching from a microphone that
smells like a beer.
If you don't think that karaoke is an
effective
self-defense technique,
you haven't been in the kind of
combat that matters.
I mean, everybody's been kung-fu

22

fighting,
but the man that remembers love is

a battlefield is in for the fight of
his life.
I believe it was the existential philosopher Cher that said,
"Even words can wound sometimes,"
and sometimes, you must never
surrender.
Forget swords and nunchucks â&#x20AC;&#x201C;
I've seen the strongest men crumble
at just a few plucks of guitar
string,
at just the opening tones of a love
ballad,
because those keys are sharp, and they
cut like a knife.
The soundtrack of life is most effective
when least expected, a secret weapon
you didn't see coming â&#x20AC;&#x201C;
and we, the Karaoke Ninja,
we are the champions.
Finally, perhaps most obviously
and definitely most importantly,
karate and karaoke are brothers in

23

linguistics.
They share a root word, "kara,"
Japanese for "open."
Karate translates "open hand,"
like the traditional chop,
or do you have the chops
to grab the pebble from my.
Those sensei with their demeaning
curricula.
Karaoke is much more empowering,
translating to "open orchestra,"
but its ancient teachers extend a
hand, too.
They pour their voices out of the basin
of their songs
and ask that you fill it, in or out of
tune;
now you're the singer in that

smokey room,
and for a smile you can share your soul
for three and a half precious minutes.
The world your stage, when life
takes its toll,
those ancient songsmiths extend an
open hand
and ask you to take their rock
and roll.

Index of Images
Bearded Lady by Jenny Fontana

iii

Dali Pops by Jenny Fontana

6

Wrath by El Vaquero Muerto

8

Whispers Through The Trees by Jenny Fontana

13

Nom Ominas Chihuahua by Jenny Fontana

16

Untitled by Maynard Breese

20

Forest by Judy Wood

21

NaNoWriMo Logo, Courtesy of The Office of Letters and Light

24

Guadalupe by Shayne of the Dead

Front Cover

Mousefurautu by Gilead

Back Cover

November is National Novel
Writing Month
How many times have you said to yourself “I’ll write a novel, someday.”?
Well, today is the day. Actually, November 1st is the day.
Every year around this time, hundreds of writers around the Valley start gearing up for a
month of shenanigans and insanity– and above all, fun.
My name is Amber, and I’m here to tell you about it.
November is National Novel Writing Month, and the premise is pretty simple. You write
50,000 words in 30 days. And I know you’re saying to yourself, “But that’s an awful lot of
words!” It equals out to about 1,667 words a day, and it is a lot of work, but it’s absolutely
worth every second of it. It also helps that there are events throughout the month where
you can get out and meet the other people who are crazy enough to attempt it.
Here in the Valley, we have two regions with events– Phoenix and East Valley. I am the
East Valley Co-ML, and this will be my ninth year doing NaNo. The friends I have met and
the habits I have gained as a writer through NaNoWriMo are invaluable to me. We’d love to
see you out at the events, but if nothing else, join in on the fun from the comfort of your
own home. More info can be found at www.nanowrimo.org. Register today.
Write a novel. If not now, when?

And in the next RESTLESS issue:
Did you partake in the goodness that is NaNoWriMo? We want to hear about it! Tell us
your triumphs, your dark moments, and give us an excerpt from your novel– we’d love to
see all the different stories that were crafted during November. As usual, submissions can
be sent to submissions@restlessanthology.com.

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RESTLESS: Issue Two

M

aynard Breese

Maynard Breese is a Chandler based digital artist, with
works showing throughout the Phoenix
area, as well as Nevada & California.
"I call my style realistic surrealism. I
strive to create an immediate visceral
response with my work. Creepy cool
sexy is the feeling I am going for."

A

mber Brosovich

Amber Brosovich wears many
hats, despite the fact that she
looks terrible in them. If she isn’t arguing with her fellow RESTLESS founders, she can be found wasting too much
time on facebook or attempting to write
a 50,000 word novel on a Smith Corona
Corsair Deluxe. She can be contacted
via bat-signal in most metropolitan areas or at amber@restlessanthology.com if
you are feeling feisty.

D

avid Crummey

David Crummey is searching
for the nexus of urbanism,
culture, food and justice, and exploring
our human character in terms of our
physical geography. He is currently
pursuing a Masters from ASU; he can
otherwise be found working to bring
Downtown Mesa to it’s fully awesome
potential, or fighting with his RESTLESS co-founders. Inquiries can be sent
to david@restlessanthology.com.

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E

l Vaquero Muerto

El Vaquero Muerto Leather Art
is the rock n' roll brainchild of the artist
El Vaquero Muerto, brought to life by
the mad hustling of fellow artist Jose
"El Guey" Salazar. It all started when
the two met in "The Office" while at
bad boy camp in 2002. Their mutual
passion for bitchin' art brought them
together as friends, and now, 6 years
later, as business partners. Their work
can be found at:
www.elvaqueromuerto.com

Jenny Fontana

Miss Fontana was unable to get us a
bio in the ridiculously short amount
of time we gave her. Here’s her bio,
shamelessly stolen from her Etsy page.
“I am a dark artist that loves all things
macabre and gothic. I have a very dark
sense of humor and I currently reside in
Arizona with my family and a great
assortment of spooky critters! “

G

ilead

Gilead is a fantasy and science
fiction illustrator with 18 years
of freelance art experience. He grew up
in Prescott, AZ and is currently living
in Gilbert with his wife Stellar and a cat
named Mischief. He paints in acrylics
and oils on recycled materials such as
scrap wood, furniture parts, doors and
metal. He has paintings in the Method
Gallery in Scottsdale and Gallery 225 in
Gilbert.

Contributors and Victims

R

uss Kazmierczak,
Jr.

Russ Kazmierczak, Jr. is the
local writer/illustrator responsible for
"Amazing Arizona Comics," the cutting
edge mini-comic book series that exposes Sheriff Joe Arpaio's secret superdeputy program. When he isn't exposing these conspiracies to the public via
the graphic arts, Russ is either singing
karaoke or writing and performing poetry around the Valley. He has recently
published his first poetry chapbook,
"For Whom the Recess Bell Tolls,"
which can be ordered from:
http://karaokefanboypress.blogspot.com

O

badiah Madsen

Obadiah Madsen, a happily
married man and father of two
beautiful daughters. He is a person,
not an illness or stereotype. Obadiah
has been diagnosed with a serious mental illness. He often writes about his
experience to promote hope and erase
stigma.

M

att Mesnard

Chided for years by Chris
Baty and National Public
Radio, this Mesa writer broke away
from his usual path of screenplays
and movie production work to venture into the less structured and often
uncivilized world of novels and short
stories. Surviving as a writer of free-

lance: If you have a literary impasse,
if nobody else will help; maybe you
can find Mesnard.

T

. Munk

The Reverend Theodore Munk
is an Arizona native, a natural
desert rat and an aficionado of doing
things the old-fashioned way. Take for
instance, this little biography. Given the
task of whiting a hundred or so words
about himself, he heads straight to the
most beat-up typewriter in his collecion,
a 1957 Tower Portable, and sets to work
hammering a page load of drivel in a
format that will either need to be retyped by an editor or scanned in and
printed as-is -- a glaring incongruity of
typos among a bunch of neatly typeset
entries. He's just that kind of guy, you
know?

O

wen Stupka

Owen Stupka is a freelancer
writer, part-time assassin, and
is just happy to be nominated. As one
of the editors of RESTLESS, Owen
hopes to be able to immanentize the
eschaton, or at least rock it like it's never been rocked before.
For contact,
hate mail, or naked picture disposal, you
can contact him at

owen@restlessanthology.com.

E

van Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connor
Was born March 15th, 1990.
Loves writing, and has too

26

many hobbies to keep a record of all of
them.

S

hayne of the Dead

I am an artist, promoter, producer, consultant, and gallery owner.
I'm working on many different projects
all the time. I have a once a month
event called SINge at the FireHouse,
that focuses on fire performance and
dancing. I also throw an event called
Black Light Mass occasionally with a
group known as the Family. I'm working on online endeavor called the Make
Art Available project on Etsy and ArtFire.com. It is a project to make emerging artists art available to everyone
whether they have a tight budget or are
a collector. My partners and I have also
recently acquired a new gallery space
called Galeria de los Muertos at 905
N.5th street. It's right in the heart of
the downtown Phoenix arts district, we
will be featuring some of the best local
and visiting artist working in the dark
and lo brow art movement. His work
can be found at:

www.shayneofthedead.com

D

avid Wiersch

I used to think I didn’t get anything
out of church as a kid
But now I know that its where my
need to be on stage developed
From the choir that could barley sing
To the child molester and his organ
playing

27

The man on the cross didn’t mean a
thing- when the beat rises and the
melody swings
I didn’t care what they where saying i
only cared about the how and the
what they where playing
Music gave birth to my soul
No devil, no angel

Just rock and roll

D

avid and
Wood

Judy

David and Judy Wood live in
Mesa, AZ and have been drawing,
painting and writing for years. This
year they have spent more time collaborating on art and poetry. "Forest" ~
a mixed media drawing was created
during the summer of 2010 while celebrating their 36th wedding anniversary.

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150 Word Micro-Fiction Contest!
Tell us your best story in 150 words (exactly)!
All qualifying entries will be printed in an upcoming
edition of RESTLESS.
Each entry will be scored by popular vote (50%) and by
our illustrious judgeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s panel (50%).
Entries can be sent to

150words@restlessanthology.com.
Entries must be 150 words long.
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No shorter. No longer.

Coming Soon
RESTLESS: Issue Three
Request for Submissions
RESTLESS, a new Arts Anthology, is calling all local writers and artists for submissions. RESTLESS is looking for all types of fiction and non-fiction written in experimental
and traditional writing styles. RESTLESS is also accepting event suggestions, reviews, comics and visual-art that translates well into black and white print.

Guidelines for Submissions:
Fiction / Creative Non-fiction / Experimental Fiction / Micro-fiction
No word limit, though generally under 10,000 words. Please attach as a DOC, DOCX, RTF,
TXT, ODT or whatever.
Poetry
RESTLESS publishes a small amount of poetry per issue. Again, no word limit, but generally under 5,000 words. Please send as an attachment.
Local Restaurant Reviews - Alternatives to the Chain
Review an awesome locally-owned restaurant with the view of giving us good alternatives to
the standard chain restaurants. 50-400 words.
Comics & Other Visual Art
Must translate well into grayscale/black & white. Images must be of high enough quality
for translation to print. Raster or Vector images acceptable. JPG, PNG, SVG or AI are acceptable formats. PNG or JPG are preferred.
Unique Contributions
Other contributions are considered as well. Stickers, Wood/linocut stamps, inserts of other
kinds, etc. Please e-mail with a description / image of the proposed contribution for consideration.
Recipes & Cooking Stories
Unique, delicious recipes—stand-alone or with a story attached.
Content:
RESTLESS does not have specific content guidelines. In general, content should strive to be
no more than a PG-13 or a soft-R. Explicit content is generally frowned upon, but is acceptable when appropriate within the story and handled maturely. We aim to include as
many readers as possible, young and old.
We are always accepting submissions of all types of content. Deadlines for particular issues
are generally two-weeks before the launch date.
Submissions should be sent to submissions@restlessanthology.com. Please include the type
of submission (fiction, non-fiction, review, event, etc...) in the subject line of the e-mail, as
well as a short 50-150 word bio. If it’s not included, we’re making it up. Seriously.
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